


Feathers

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Fluff, Hogwarts Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-16
Updated: 2006-10-16
Packaged: 2018-10-27 05:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10802547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: "It has become so disturbing, reaching the point that you hope for the sweet torture to end soon, and begging silently for it to never stop."





	Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes:

Enjoy.

And, again, my eternal gratitude to my great beta, mench.   


* * *

It became disturbing. 

It has become so disturbing, reaching the point that you hope for the sweet torture to end soon, and begging silently for it to never stop. 

You can't help but flinch, startle. It's new, though, so it is understandable. Those touches weren't there before. You figured that they always existed, and they always flustered you to no end. 

They didn't linger so much back then, though. 

And they never quite gave you that feeling in your stomach. 

It was a funny, interesting feeling, before. Now it was maddening. 

You can't help but glare at him, even if he is oblivious to your stare, to your heartbeat, to your skin breaking into goosebumps. 

So it became disturbing. 

Because if you didn't know any better, you'd say that he spends his entire day thinking of different ways to wind you up. 

And it was disturbing how he always managed to reach his goal, his purpose. 

And he enjoys it. _Of course he does_ , you think. 

He _must_. 

Or so you hope

....

 

You feel something breezing through your thick hair and your neck, and it makes you shiver and stiffen up at the same time. You turn. And your stomach somersaults when you see him, and _his_ hand, lingering above your head. You try to catch his eye, in more ways than one, but his eyes are focused on something in your hair. 

You're about to question him, and curse inside your head as once again you feel your neck and back heating as he slowly drives his long fingers through your head. 

Before you close your eyes in pleasure, his hand is in front of your face, and his fingers holding a small, thin strand of a feather. 

You stare at it for a moment, and then down to your quill, which was, yes, worse for the wear, a bit. Strands were falling off of it. And one managed to get tangled in your hair, apparently. 

He sniggers. And the heat around your body, _inside_ your body increases. 

You manage a small smile, but when he keeps sniggering, you can't help but giggle. 

That is, until his fingers return to your head. 

You blame your heating cheeks on your embarrassment, as he pulls one, two, three more strands off your hair. He must think you look like a crazy old lady, with white strands sticking up your head. 

He must be doing it on purpose. He manages, once again, to wind you up. And yet, you can't help but feel excited, as your breath quickens. 

Disturbing, really, how one feather-light touch, as literally as it may sound, can make you feel all bothered. 

He draws back, but only slightly, you notice. He steals a glance at your eyes, staring up at him, and quickly averts his gaze at the floor. You feel a satisfaction at knowing that you managed to make him as comfortably uncomfortable as he makes you feel on regular basis. 

God. 

You're not making any sense. 

Because it is disturbing, how you can be referred as level-headed, and still fly off the handle by one of his little provocations. How you can be known as clever, and not know what's on his mind, what his face is telling. How you can be called logical and still feel your thoughts running haywire, and your heart pounding in your ears whenever he brushes against you. 

How you like to make a plan for everything, and at the moment, want nothing more than act on what your emotions tell you. 

...

 

Some time ago you would've been afraid. Your heart can only take so much pain, you decided. It was hard enough to breathe when its broken pieces were crushing your lungs. Because that was how it felt, every time you saw him with someone else. Someone who was not you, but your roommate. Overwhelming. Sometimes, you just stared in horror, in shock, waiting for the nightmare to be over so you could wake up and realize he was still _yours._ And other times, mostly, you would be wise enough to avert your gaze, and go away, as far as possible, realizing he was never _yours._

He didn't want to be yours. 

And a while ago, his sister told you about that fateful night, so many months ago. She felt so very guilty about revealing that little piece of information about you to him, but even more at realizing that she was partly responsible for the whole mess. The mess you were reduced to. 

You didn't have the energy or grudge for being angry at her, for you were grateful enough that he was alive. He was alive, and with you, once again. 

And also, you were grateful enough, very ironically, that his sister wasn't very good at keeping secrets, for the next thing she did after asking for your forgiveness was ramble about how miserable _he_ was during the time you were apart. She told you she knew he couldn't stop thinking about you. And you believed her. 

Because it was very disturbing, the image of him choking to death. It was gut-wrenching that he could've gone without you resolving matters. It was heart-breaking, the thought of losing him. 

...

 

And that's how you realized, that planning could take a lot out of one's life. Time, for example. Good time. Time you could've spend in each other's arms. 

And you don't want to think about the disturbing future that most probably awaits you and your friends. 

Not anymore. 

Not for a while, at least. 

He hasn't moved, except to pick up your shabby quill, and roll it between his fingers. 

"I think you need another one," he says.

A small smile breaks into your face at noticing the slight quiver in his voice. 

He gulped nervously, and your smile widens. 

You reach for your quill, and wrap your fingers around his. He raises his eyes, his gorgeous blue eyes, and meets your gaze. 

Right now, you're amazed; because the moment you decide to give in to your feelings, and ditch the hesitancy, is the moment you can see as clearly as water _his_ emotions. And along with your battered quill, your fears and doubts fall to the floor. 

You see his eyes widen a bit. You see him gulp again. You can feel his uneven breath on your face. And you can feel a slight shiver through your fingers holding his. 

The moment before your lips meet, you think smugly that you managed to wind _him_ up. 

And before you completely lose your mind, while crushing him against you and wrapping your arms around his neck, you wonder if he'll tell Harry how you making the first, feral move was a little disturbing.


End file.
